


Vice Rag

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:16:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year you go off to college, the year you finally decide to run away from all of this, to start a new life that isn't filled with hunting trips and anti-psychotics and your father's dark, dead eyes, his tongue swollen around your mother's name, his hand reaching out for you, the year you just fucking give up, well, it's the same year Sam decides that he will never be able to let you go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vice Rag

**VICE RAG**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Sam/Dean; Dean/OMC  
 **WARNINGS** : pre-series AU; non-consenual sex; drug use; evil!Sam; character death

  
The year you go off to college, the year you finally decide to run away from all of this, to start a new life that isn't filled with hunting trips and anti-psychotics and your father's dark, dead eyes, his tongue swollen around your mother's name, his hand reaching out for you, the year you just fucking give up, well, it's the same year Sam decides that he will never be able to let you go.

Your father's doctor is tall and thin, looks young, younger than you, maybe, won't look you in the eye as he reads from the chart in his hands, stutters out words like haloperidol and chlorpromazine, swallows again and again. His name tag is faded, his hands shake. You don't understand anything he says, but you sign the forms anyway, small, tight script, mostly just so you can get out of here without having to stop by your father's room and pretend like you can see past the dying flowers and hospital sheets and blue stripes on the wall.

Sam meets you by the car, says, "He asked for you again."

Says, "He kept calling me Bobby." This isn’t new.

Sam’s sunglasses hide the tears in his eyes, but then again so do yours, and neither of you say anything, haven’t in a really long while. You watch as the sun creeps past the horizon, sinking lower into the mountains, watch as the stars start to come out, fistfuls of lights.

Your hands grip the steering wheel, your heart pulses underneath your fingertips, and Sam wraps his palm around your wrist, slides his thumb up and down, looks at you with those eyes, soft, pleading. His lips are cherry red, kiss swollen, and there's a dark bruise on the crook on his neck.

Sam says, "Let's go back to your dorm."

His thumb circling your heartbeat through your skin, slow, it’s not a question because he never asks you, never gives you the chance to say no, your teeth on your bottom lip so hard, biting down, tasting blood, he can't keep his hands off you.

Sam says, "C'mon," his fingers, says, "I can skip school tomorrow."

Says, "We can spend the day in bed."

This taste of blood in the back of your throat like lead, like something you've forgotten, something you should remember, but just don't, even though your life might depend on it, this taste like Sam's mouth, Sam’s teeth and tongue. His fingers never leave your wrist, even after you start the engine, even after your foot presses hard on the petal, the Impala jerking tight underneath your touch.

***

Your father taught you how to hold a rifle when you were ten. This was before the doctors, before the hospitals and medications, when Sam was just a baby, toting around coloring books with drawn in monsters, drawn in bloodshed and white fangs and four-inch claws, when the backseat of the Impala was always dirty with melted crayon wax.

Your father got sick of you begging him to show you, got sick of the pleading desperation in your voice, the way your mouth would curl like your mothers, the way Sam would cry when you raised your voice. He let you carry his rifle out back, made you promise to do everything he said, everything he told you, positioning the gun on your shoulder, your arms and hands curling around the stock, the cold metal. He let you aim it, showed you how to pick out the tin can through the sight, showed you how to take the safety off, how to slowly pull the trigger, your breath exhaling white in the winter air.

His hands heavy on your shoulders, his fingers proud and tight through your coat, the hum that comes from his chest, happy, you never even miss one shot.

***

When you visit your father, he calls you Sam. You don’t touch him, don’t step past the visitor’s chair, try not to look at the bandages on his wrists, the black bruises beneath his eyes. He sees you, motions with his hands to come closer, lays back against the headboard, his fingers twitching restlessly against the comforter.

He says, “Sammy,” and your mouth runs dry.

He says, “I heard about Maryland.”

Says, “That place where those women have gone missing, the ones with the babies. Bobby says they call it Crybaby Bridge.” Your hands won’t stop shaking.

Your father says, “Bobby told me there was a legend out there, said you should look it up.” Your jaw won’t stop clenching.

You don’t say, “Bobby died two years ago.”

You don’t say, “My name is Dean.”

***

The first time Sam kisses you, your father hasn’t even been admitted for an hour yet. It’s on the ride back from the hospital, your junior year of high school, Sam shivering in the passenger seat, quiet and upset, hands bloody from trying to soothe the scratches on your arms.

“It’s for your own good,” you had said to your father, as he screamed, as he struggled until one of the orderlies gave him a dose of something. “It’s for his own good,” you had said to Sam. His eyes were wide and red and his mouth wouldn’t stop blaming you, a tight white line that wanted to cry out, you knew, that wanted to stop them, to beg for your father back.

It’s on the ride back, when you have to stop the car on the side of the road so Sam won’t puke in the Impala, heaving with heavy gasps as he falls to his hands and knees, won’t stop crying and crying. You sit in the driver’s seat for a minute, before climbing out, pressing a warm hand on Sam’s back, rubbing circles into his shirt. Sam’s teeth are chattering, and you can feel his ribs through his skin, and his hands are opening and closing in the dirt, gripping broken corn stalks, and he says, “It’s your fault.”

Says, “You made him like this.”

Crazy, he won’t say, because you know that a part of him believes the stories just like you do. The monsters, the myths, the way your mother died. You both won’t say it, but your father has been right all along, and neither of you has ever been big enough to tell him that. To actually let this life go.

Sam says, “It’s all your fucking fault, Dean.”

And maybe it is, but you’re not going to change just because the world might not be as normal as you think. Just because your father’s the only one who knows what’s really out there. Maybe it is your fault, but you’re not giving up your chances, your ticket out of here, to admit that.

Your thumb strokes soft against your brother’s back, and he turns around and grips your face, pulls it to his, presses his lips hard against your own. Your hands pulse in midair, unsure, and Sam is pulling you closer and closer, and your cheeks are starting to hurt, and your breath is getting short, Sam’s mouth, Sam’s tongue, touching you hard and harder, and he just won’t let go. Your hands tense in the air, stiff, until Sam jerks away and pushes you against the Impala.

He says, “Fuck you,” and opens the car door, slams it shut behind him. You can hear your father’s laughter in your head.

***

Sam gets in trouble in school a lot, gets caught smoking behind the gym, giving hand jobs to older boys in the locker rooms, sneaking alcohol onto the premises. His grades are slipping and he talks back to teachers and he won’t show up for detention, and all the teachers are giving you sympathetic looks when you walk into the principal’s office.

“Are there any problems at home?” the principal asks, steepling her fingers together on a stack of manila folders. “Any kind of unwanted attention? Has he been around any older men lately?”

In Sam’s file, in neat handwriting, it says, “Father: deceased.” You made sure they wrote that down, just in case.

“Does he make any inappropriate sexual comments? Display any odd behavior for a young man his age?” the principal looks at you through thick glasses and purses her mouth full of red lipstick.

There are bruises on your hands, but only because Sam’s getting bigger everyday, getting taller, stronger than you’ve ever been. You’ve got Intro to Psych in a half an hour, won’t make it even if you leave now, but the principal keeps looking at you expecting to hear a sob story about an estranged uncle who’s a little too touchy-feely or something.

She says, “If you haven’t seen the warning signs, it’s okay, a lot of parents and guardians never even know until the child comes forward.”

Says, “A lot of people have been through this. There are a lot of counseling centers for this kind of thing.”

Says, “We can get Sam help before it’s too late.”

You don’t say, “Sam’s not the one who needs it.”

***

For most of middle school, you save money in a small jelly jar that you hide beneath your bed. Most of it is unspent lunch money or leftover allowance from your father, but it comes in handy when your father leaves for two, three weeks at a time hunting something big in Georgia or Tennessee or West Virginia. When Sammy gets tired of bread and peanut butter and cries until you buy him an ice cream cone, sliding mud-caked pennies on to the counter at the local supermarket.

Your father finds the jar one morning, shakes you by the collar of your shirt and tells you that he’s the only one who takes care of the money around here, he’s the only one who calls the shots and you better not be hiding things from him, boy, because this family doesn’t allow any secrets.

You say, “It’s for college,” the tears in your eyes that you’ll never let fall, not in front of your father, and you say, “I was only saving up a little.”

Your father says, “No son of mine is ever going to college,” and he drops you to the floor at his feet, splayed out solid on the wood.

***

The second time Sam kisses you, your father is sleeping silently in the next room, fresh out of the hospital, exhausted and doped up on meds. Sam covers your mouth when you start to hiss at him, eyes wide, smirks at you and walks his fingers down your chest, down your stomach, down the fly of your jeans. There’s a fist in your throat, hard, and you try swallowing, but nothing will move past it, nothing will come out, and Sam is humming low in his throat, unbuttoning your pants, sliding down the zipper.

And if he notices the way your eyes shut tight, the way your face scrunches up hard, the way your nostrils flare, mouth tightens, with desperate sounds that just won’t emerge, well, he never says anything.

***

You meet Ryan in your philosophy class. He’s an art major, tall and handsome with warm, hazel eyes, and he wears tight clothes, and gets fifty-dollar haircuts in the city, and smiles whenever you walk into a room. It’s funny, really, how banal life can be sometimes.

He buys you whiskey with his fake ID, whispers to you about Jackson Pollock and Andy Warhol in the dark, his hand firm on your thigh, his mouth soft against your neck, whispers to you about Jasper Johns and hitches his breath when your tongue touches his. He never asks about your family, never wants to know why your brother always stays the night, why you have bruises and cuts on your hands, your wrists.

He’s the one who introduces you to prescription medication. It’s funny, really, how you’ve never seen the value in something you’ve always been around, not until Ryan feeds it to you one night, fingers blunt against your face, helping you swallow. He starts small, Valium and Prozac, standard stuff that tastes stale as they go down with a whiskey chaser, tastes sour.

He says, “It’ll make you feel good,” and you think of Sam and you think of your father.

You don’t say, “Anything’s better than this.”

He starts small, but then moves to Ritalin and Demerol and Vicodin, OxyContin sharp against his tongue, his teeth, as he kisses you, as it dissolves.

Ryan says, “You’ll love it.”

You don’t say, “I guess there isn’t much I don’t love.”

***

Sam only notices because you start leaving used condoms in your bed.

***

Your father finds out before you do, in between the hospitals, four years before you find yourself in college, before Ryan and everything. You tell yourself that this is because your mind doesn’t work that way, doesn’t look for signs of all that fucked up evil shit, the ghosts, the demons, the monsters, whatever. You tell yourself that this is because Sam was never like this, never this bad when he was a child. You tell yourself that this is because Sam just can’t be what he is.

Your father finds out because Sam drinks holy water by accident. Finds out because, as soon as it touches Sam’s lips, he screams, tries to spit it out of his mouth, tries to get it away from him, grabs his throat and starts gasping for air. Your father stands stunned, knows right then what’s wrong, even as your hands go for Sam, even as you try to soothe away the hurt.

Your father says, “Don’t touch him,” his voice loud, strong, and you stop in your tracks halfway between them, your family. You don’t know what to do, your hands reaching out, shaking, wanting to go to Sam, but you’ve never defied your father before and this doesn’t seem like the time to start.

Sam says, “Please.”

Your father says, “Don’t touch him, Dean.”

You don’t say, “This is Sam. This is Sammy,” but that’s only because your lips couldn’t move even if they tried.

Sam and his pleading eyes, he wants to cry out, wants your hands on him, your father’s soothing voice, you know, but he knows the gravity of this, knows exactly what this means, even if you don’t, even if you’re a little fuzzy about the details. Sam and his swollen mouth, red and painful looking, his lips are moving silently, his eyes welling up with tears.

Your father says, “We can fix this, Sam.”

Says, “We can do something about this.”

You don’t say, “Do something about what?” but that’s only because of your father’s grip on your arm, and the fingernails that dig sharp into your skin.

***

That’s when you meet Bobby, after the holy water. Your father bundles you and Sam into the car, won’t look at your brother, won’t touch him, even as he starts to cry soft, silent, in the backseat. It takes a day or two and a few state lines before you get there, a greasy, rundown junkyard, and a man who looks just as gruff as your father.

Your father takes him by the arm in to the other room, speaks to him in hushed tones. Sam isn’t crying anymore, stands stoic by the front door, won’t say a word, won’t look you in the eye. You both hear words like exorcism, like spells and magic, like bad blood, your father and his rough voice, you both hear words like demon, like monster.

You don’t say, “I’m sorry.”

You don’t say, “There’s nothing I could do.”

***

The third time Sam kisses you, you both have blood on your face. Your father is safe in the hospital, safe with doctors and medicine, and Sam is touching you with dirty hands, ash and magic, whispering to you that everything will be okay, if only for a little while.

You’re crying, a foot away from Bobby’s cold body, his open stomach, and Sam’s mouth is painted red and he’s telling you, “He deserved it.”

Telling you, “He asked for it.”

Telling you, “You know what he was trying to do.”

You’re crying, and Sam is stroking your face red, leaving kisses along your cheeks, your jaw, saying, “Shh.”

Saying, “I’ll never hurt you. Never.”

Kissing your mouth, your tears, your silent struggle for air, that pain in your chest like you’ve known this all along, like you shouldn’t be surprised, Sam has his hands on you, and you know it just has to be this way. You know that this is just how it has to be.

And Sam’s saying, “I had to,” and he means the knife, he means Bobby’s cold, dead eyes, the shape of his mouth like an o, he means Bobby’s hand still reaching out for you, the Latin that never made it past his throat.

And Sam’s mouth on yours, he’s saying, “He was trying to get between us.”

***

You find Ryan in your bed after American Cinema, a bottle of your pills in his hand, an empty bottle of vodka at his feet. His arms are cold, his lips are blue. Sam is sitting in the corner, a shameless smile on his face.

“I tried to stop him,” he says, his teeth white in the dark, smiling, smiling.

“I tried.”

You don’t say, “I could have loved him.”

You don’t say, “Why? Why me?”

You do say, “C’mon,” and grab as much stuff as you can fit in your duffel bag, everything that you need, everything that might have your fingerprints on it, your DNA.

You do say, “Let’s go,” gripping Sam’s arm tight, pulling him out of the room, out of the building to your car. If you’re lucky, you won’t make it on to the six o’clock news.

***

When you were fifteen, your father taught you how to kill. His fingers light on the hilt of his knife, he shows you how to thrust, how to duck, how to move in for the kill shot, nice and tight right through the center of the heart.

“If it’s a man,” he says. Demons or monsters, he doesn’t say, but only because he sees the look in your eyes sometimes, the disbelief. He sees the way your face goes slack, you know, like you just can’t take it anymore, like you just can’t deal with this.

“If it’s a man,” he says, stroking the silver of the blade with his thumb.

***

Sam says, “Let’s grab Dad before we go,” but this is only because he wants one last shot, one last kill, before you leave the state entirely, before both of your faces end up plastered on the FBI’s Most Wanted List.

You don’t say, “No. Not him,” but only because you’ve never been able to say no to Sam, not even now, not even when it’s about your father.

Sam says, “He knows too much.”

Sam says, “They’ll come looking for him.”

Sam says, “We have to.”

You don’t say, “No, we can’t,” but only because this will probably be the most merciful thing you’ve ever done for your father. You don’t say, “No,” but only because this will probably be the kindest thing you’ve ever given him.

***

Your father’s doctor is tall and thin, and he looks surprised to see you, says, “Oh,” says, “Mr. Winchester,” but you really don’t have time for this now, not when Sam has that look in his eyes, not when Sam is gripping your arm tight, tight enough to leave bruises, when his teeth are grinding down so hard you can hear them start to break.

You say, “Sorry.”

You say, “I just need to see my father.”

And the doctor nods once, like he knows, writes something down on the clipboard in his hands, keeps nodding, says, “Yes, of course.” Says, “Of course,” like he knows, like he knows.

Sam says, “C’mon,” because he’s got that itch, you know, that itch that keeps you up at night when he’s in your arms, that itch that might just come for you next, that might only be satisfied when everyone in your family is gone and it’s just Sam, just Sam alone.

Sam says, “C’mon,” and his fingernails are drawing blood on your arm, pinching tight, and he’s leading you to your father’s room, that look in his eyes, that knife that he has in his pocket.

You don’t say, “No.”

You don’t say, “Stop,” but only because you’ve always kind of wanted this, too.

Sam says, “C’mon,” and he’s taking the knife out and your father is there, on the bed, and it’s one thing, for it to be Bobby or Ryan, but it’s entirely another thing for it to be your father, even when he’s always been right about everything, even when you know he’s not as crazy as you thought, as you always hoped. It entirely another thing for you to see Sam over your father’s bed, that look in his eye, that knife in his hands, Sam with that same mouth you’ve never wanted to kiss, but always have, Sam with those same hands you’ve never wanted to touch, but could never get off you.

You don’t say, “No.”

You don’t say, “This is wrong.”

You don’t say, “Stop,” but only because Sam’s the last thing you got.

***

You only love him because you could never love anyone else.


End file.
